PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

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March stands at a grand total of 4'9" (144.8cm) with willowy, unathletic limbs and a rigid, ramrod spine. Only when he is studying, does he lose his stiff posture, slouching forward to peer down at his work, with his nose just hovering above the paper. His left hand grips his quill harder than necessary, and ink stains his prominent writer's callus and smudges onto the shell of his hand. March typically keeps a rather curt, overly serious expression fixed on his face. A more watchful gaze, however, might catch the wrinkle of his nose when deep in focus, or the grinding of his teeth in frustration, or the brightening of his eyes in interest and excitement, two round stones of bitter dark chocolate catching in the light. With blunt words that ring like a clear bell and a soft lilt to his Mancunian accent, March can give off the impression that he's an honest, straightforward kid. The truth couldn’t be any further.

March's school uniform is always up to standard regulation, and it’s a rare sight for him to be seen without his green and silver striped scarf. He wouldn't ever admit it out loud, but he takes secret joy in the novelty of swishing around in his wizard cloak and his wizard hat. It also happens to have the added benefit of being nice and warm; March finds himself getting rather cold rather easily, ears turning red in the hazy Highlands fog. Outside of his school uniform, March is always layered up in sweaters, jackets, and comfortably worn jeans, courtesy of his grandmother's fussing. Each clothing tag tucked into a waistband, collar, or seam is marked with his initials in Sharpie, M.Y.

While the cloak and hat were purchased brand new from Diagon Alley (on account of owning no wizard garb in the first place), the rest of his clothing is second-hand. His grandmother had taken special care to choose only clothes that were well-fitted and well-cared for from the thrift, so March takes his own special care to keep them clean in return. Dress neat, stand tall, and give no one a reason to look down on you. It’s both a warning and a hope to fit in among the hallowed halls of Hogwarts Castle. Maybe things will be good here.

Maybe, just might.

MENTAL DESCRIPTION

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March tried his best to be an easy child to raise. He had learned a long time ago that it was best to quietly manage his world on his own, and that it went a long way to ease the burden on the people who cared for him. And indeed, everything about him was rather text book: obedient and studious, conscientious and helpful, and above all, mature for his age. A well-behaved son, and a pleasure to have in class.

But that couldn’t be all there was to him. No, there were other things that he just couldn’t seem to fix. He didn't like to roughhouse, he didn't like to get dirty, he got winded from running outside quickly. He was too bossy, too perfectionistic, and honestly, a little rude. He was better than the rest of them, but overly prideful and thus, overly sensitive, primed and ready to blow. And worst of all? He was an unrepentant liar. In truth, March often found that all his efforts to be easy paled in the face of his quick temper, in the face of his moments of disobedience, and in the face of the selfish little ways that he was a child.

Because at the core of it all, March still was just a child. He sought love and approval, just as any child would, and wanted to show off the things that made him good, and curl defensively around the ones that made him not. His anger and his solemn nature were a tough front against the world around him, and with this shield fixed in place, he was determined to make something of himself, to achieve, and to succeed.

One way or another, hell or high water.

BIOGRAPHY

MOTHER.

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The last morning of winter had been beautiful, so beautiful.

April Kwong thought briefly about disappearing into the cold fog and steel blue sky as the muggle doctor gingerly placed a tiny bundle of fabric and flesh in her arms. Six pounds, two ounces, wriggling, damp, and copper scented. It cried, and her eyes tracked the rise and fall of breath with every piercing wail. One bitten fingernail acted as a seismograph and drew a wavering line down the curve of the shrieking thing’s cheek. Deep brown eyes, bordering on the edge of black. They mirrored her own shaking gaze, and her heart tremored, and tremored, and tremored.

In forty-seven minutes, she would hemorrhage 3.3 litres of blood. In ten days, she would be discharged from the hospital. In six and a half months, she would marry her fiancé at a small and modest wedding venue. In nine months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. In eleven months, she and her husband would argue and smash plates and scream, the muggle way. In eleven months and two days, they would kiss and make up, the muggle way.

In twelve months, she would celebrate her son’s first birthday. In thirteen months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove.

In twenty-four months, she would celebrate her son’s second birthday. In twenty-five months, she and her husband would argue, the muggle way. In twenty-six months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. In twenty-eight months, her parents-in-law would move into her and her husband’s cramped apartment. In twenty-eight months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove.

In thirty-six months, she would celebrate her son’s third birthday. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way. In forty months, her husband’s father would fall ill and require an extended hospital stay. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way. In forty-one months, her husband’s father would return home, needing help and care with his daily living. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way.

In forty-eight months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove.

She and her husband would argue, the muggle way.

They would celebrate their son’s fourth birthday.

In sixty months, she would draft a letter to her mother. The stove clicked, click, click, clicked, as she blinked at it in the dark hours of early morning. The other night, she and her husband had argued, the muggle way. She sighed, reaching up towards the shelf of the kitchen altar. Fluttering, pale fingers found a tall thin plastic tube with delicate sticks of sandalwood. It was… odd, this blend of muggle and wizard habits. Wandless, wordless, the tip of the incense lit up at her will, and she watched the glowing red cinders gently bloom. Smoke curled out in a snaking pattern of perfume, and she breathed it in. She really could just get rid of her letters without this drawn out routine, she thought, as she prodded the stove with the incense and let the gas belch out a flame that burned away the whiff of sulfur. A list of chores and tasks churned through her mind, a sludging deluge of to-do, to-do, to-do.

One. Cook breakfast, prep early for lunch. Her tongue slipped out, and she wet the flimsy envelope she had purchased from Poundland. The glue tasted vaguely savory.

Two. Wash dishes. Sweep, then mop the floors. The smudge of mud by the front door from March’s shoes was still hiding under the doormat that had been thrown over it; LaaiLaai was bound to comment on that if she saw it. She sealed the tacky end and flipped over the letter to stare at the sender and recipient. Her finger traced the spot where the cheap ballpoint pen had begun to run out of ink. Her maiden name. Pure of blood.

Three. Check the weather forecast, get the clothes ready to be hauled downstairs to the coin laundromat for washing and drying. She drifted back to the stove, glancing only momentarily out the window. The steel blue sky was beginning to lighten. She looked away.

Four. A birthday cake for March, from the supermarket with the display case window that he always loved to smush his face into. Medicine for LouYeh, as soon as he woke up. A charm to clear away the smoke sat ready on the edge of her mind, to hide the smell of her sickness for home, to hide the charred remains of the life she used to have. Her hands squeezed the letter tighter.

Five years of this. Many more to come.

An owl screamed out in the cold morning still. Crepuscular. It was alive, here, in the hours between night and day, guided by instinct. The sun was going to rise soon. There wasn’t much time left. If there was ever a moment, it was now.

Now.

Now!

April turned off the stove. She rushed to throw open the sliding door to the balcony, not caring, for once, for stealth or reason. The letter fell to the floor at the threshold, and she leapt across as bones hollowed, arms folded, flight feathers sprouted, and talons curled. In one breath, April was a woman, a wife, a coward, a mother. In the next breath, she was free.

The Animagus perched on the metal railing.

Her head turned, slowly, 360, and she peered into the apartment in the silence.

No sound.

No movement.

No one noticed.

Then, a rattled doorknob, and a small boy crept out into the space of the living room.

He froze, his sleep-muddled eyes meeting piercing brown ones, bordering on the edge of black.

April looked away and disappeared.

FATHER.

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The missing person's case had split Anthony Yeung into two pieces.

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He hardly showed up to work on time.

When they began to investigate the possibility of his hand in murder, it split him into two more. And then two more. And then two more, and two more, and two more, and two more, and-

The missing person’s case didn’t make any sense. The only piece of evidence they had was an envelope, signed by one 鄺秀英 (Kwong… that’s not right- she took my name when we married, so it should’ve been Yeung-) and addressed to no one at all. The letter inside? Seemingly blank. There were no signs of foul play, no forced entry, no forced exit, no note, no clues, no trace, no reason, no explanation, no conversation, no thing in the world that could make it right anymore, because how could it be right anymore? April was gone, and she wasn’t going to be here anymore.

That was the best way he could explain it to March, who asked insistently, over and over and over again, when April was going to come home? When, when, when, when, when! It was obvious, apparently, that he was about to boil over from it all, because his mother deftly stepped in and herded his son away from him.

How did things all go so wrong?

Anthony had been, he admitted (foolishly) to the cops, arguing more and more with April lately. Neighbors had submitted noise complaints for all the early morning yelling, midday stomping, and late-night slammed doors. The “happy” couple weren’t popular with the rest of the residents in the complex. But- but! -it was the stress; he fumbled to recover, realizing his mistake. The arguments, they were worse recently, yes, but their lives were changing and moving a lot! There were financial pressures, supporting his four-person household on his own, with unexpected medical debt from his father’s stroke piling on top like a bitter cherry. And April was always struggling with this small space they lived in, feeling claustrophobic as their son grew bigger and bigger and ran and climbed and got into things more and more. And since the start, motherhood has been a lot of hardship and all for her. The doctors told us that it was normal and that she’d get better; she just needed more time! April and I argued a lot, but what couple doesn’t? It doesn’t mean I-!

Twelve months passed. Anthony was no longer considered a suspect. The case went cold.

April stayed missing, and Anthony, he stayed split.

For those twelve months, he was listless, going through the motions. March’s neediness quickly became more and more intolerable. He needed space to think, to breathe. To stop seeing all that remained of April, that damned empty letter and the endless crying, crying, crying, crying! He didn’t have any answers, of course he wanted her back, but there wasn’t anything he could do! Boys don’t cry. Stop crying! Where was April? Where did she go? How was he supposed to do this without her? He was a provider, not a child rearer; he couldn’t do this without her! She had married him and they had promised each other! In sickness and in health, till death do us part, and for every vow, he had meant it, and in the end, she had-

Anthony laid alone in the dark, eyes bloodshot and unbearably dry. Was she lost? Taken? Was she hurt, or killed? Did she leave? Abandon all of them? Run away like she said she had wanted to, all those screaming matches ago? His mind ran circles, and his heart ran circles, and his legs ran circles as he began to throw himself more and more into work. There would be no memorial service for Vera; it was too expensive, and he still had a family to feed.

Get up. Clock in. Clock out. Grab a pint. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Pick up extra shifts. Work overtime. Pay the bills. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

It was there that he found peace. With the constant grind, he didn’t have to think about things anymore. There was no more missing wife. No more whining son. No more sickly father. No more worried mother. Just the steady cycle of work in his hands, no matter now exhausting, no matter how grueling. The hustle of the restaurant during lunch and dinner hours, steadying. The spray of soap and water and the clatter of dishes, familiar. The dumpsters in the back, a small haven of its own; Anthony leaned against the wall and lit his cigarette, click, click, click. A bitter haze of tobacco and nicotine curled out in a snaking pattern, staining his teeth and clinging desperately to his clothes, hair, and tongue. The ashes fluttered and flared angrily with every inhale, red in the night. He held it for one heartbeat. Exhale.

Blue light flashed as he fished his phone out his back pocket, mingling with the warmer glow of the yellowing lightbulb that flickered over the back door. A moth flit past his ear. He looked at the date and time display. March 19, 4:58PM. Two minutes remaining before his break was over. Inhale. Exhale.

Anthony flicked the cigarette away and crushed it under his heel. Time to get back to work.

SON.

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His family was weird, the other school kids would tell him, as his grandmother came to pick him up and walk the few short minutes down to the westbound bus stop.

He would huddle close to her on the too-big seats, press against the puffy little vest she wore, and ask, MaaMaa, why won’t Baba tell me about Mama? He had worried that they were right; maybe they were a little weird. She would shush him every time, then start by asking him what he was learning in school. He would reluctantly play along. (Fractions, I’m pretty good at it.) Were the other kids being nice to him? (They don’t really talk to me, but I like to be inside during recess anyway.) Where did you get that scrape from? (...I tripped.)

MaaMaa reached into her purse. One alcohol wipe pressed on his knee burns white hot, while a second one wiped squeakily on the lens of her glasses. March is a big boy, he doesn’t cry.

First stop, the supermarket. MaaMaa would let him pick a slice of cake from the display, and he would choose the same one, every year, without fail. He could almost taste the cold buttercream and cheap sprinkles through the little plastic box (Funfetti was the best) and insisted on carrying it himself to the register. MaaMaa would have him count out the right amount of money, more coins than bills, and the worker would grumble at being forced to count them all. They would then climb back onto the bus, and March would eat his cake on the ride to their next destination (“Do you want some, MaaMaa?”). Better not to leave evidence of this wasteful purchase for his father to find.

Second stop, the apothecary. They were lucky to live such a short ride away from the Chinatown in their city, MaaMaa would comment as they pushed open the creaking door. The air here was dusty, earthy, savory, and bitter. He would walk up and down the aisles of herbs and roots, peer at the more expensive pieces tucked away behind glass. Tiny dark bitter pills, round as pearls and small as sand; a fragrant eucalyptus oil that relaxed YeYe’s tired muscles and offended the other kids in school; a sickeningly sweet cough syrup that was thick to choke down, but instantaneously soothing. These ones were very familiar. His eyes scanned the labels, Mandarin and English, and his ears listened to the chatter of the shopkeep in Cantonese. Monkshood, cordyceps, chrysanthemum. Wormwood, cinnabar, G. lucidum. MaaMaa makes her purchase, and he peers into the bag when they sit together again on the bus. What’s that one? (黄旗 Astragalus.) And this one? (党参 Codonopsis.) And what about these ones? (淮山 Dioscorea radix.) She’d smile and praise him for identifying the rest of the ingredients by sight, jujube, goji, and longan.

Final stop. As the doors opened, March would rush to get off first (no more jumping down, she had said). MaaMaa would then take careful steps down the steep exitway, holding onto his hand for balance. She would tell him that he was a good boy, and to always be good for his father. He works so hard, and the hospital bills for your YeYe haven’t been easy for us. I’m getting old too, so you have to be good, okay? Then we won’t ever have to worry about you. It’s important to be good.

March would struggle to bite back his sour expression. He knew all this already, but he wasn't looking to be scolded for talking back.

The keys jingled in the door to the flat, and the entrance was dark as it swung open. Baba wasn’t home, as usual. Working hard, March’s mind supplied as MaaMaa turned on the lights and gestured to the kitchen table. Homework first. He already knew how to be good. He knew all the tricks and lies to keep everything ugly tucked away, and he knew how to be smarter, faster, better than the rest. He could hurry up and be more mature for his age. He could rein in his temper. He could stop playing so much, and start doing all the work he could do to get ahead of the rest. He could be sweet and pliant and laugh and smile at the right moments, be respectful, more respectful, make friends, but not too many, be active, but also studious, make his father acknowledge him, but don't piss him off.

He could do it. His hand gripped his pencil tight. He could do it all.

That night, March curled in bed and watched an owl flit past the window. He closed his eyes and dreamed that it looked back at him, with dark brown eyes.

FIRST INSTANCE OF MAGIC

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March stared down at the tooth sitting in the middle of his palm. It was a milky white, jagged at the end where it had broken off from his mouth, and tipped in a mixture of blood and saliva. His tongue prodded the spot it had been previously, still in shock. Sure enough, there was a gap where his right side canine was supposed to be. He could taste a tinge of iron in his mouth.

Losing a tooth wasn’t supposed to come as a surprise; after all, it had been wiggly and loose for almost an entire week, and biting into that baby carrot during lunch hadn’t really helped it much. But it was his very first time, and he hadn’t anticipated it to just… fall out in the middle of a lesson about prepositions. (His tooth was outside of his mouth.) The teacher, turning around at just the right moment, rushed over, and March flushed at the sudden attention of all the students in the class.

“Oh, would you look at that!” She smiled at him, bending down to peer at the little thing. “I’ll write you a note for the nurse’s office, dear.”

The eyes followed his exit, and soon, he found himself swinging his legs as he waited for the nurse to come look at him. He stilled them as soon as she walked in, and nodded along as gravely as he could to her diagnosis. A bit of cotton gauze for the gap, a tooth-shaped capsule for his tooth-shaped tooth. A pat of reassurance on the back, and a reminder to tell his parents and tuck the tooth under his pillow for the tooth fairy.

Tooth fairy? March snorted incredulously on his commute home with MaaMaa. He was eight, not stupid. He already knew that the tooth fairy wasn’t real. It was just a made up story for spoiled little babies… but even still, the tooth rattled in his coat pocket the entire ride back. When they finally got inside the elevator up to their apartment floor, March tugged on MaaMaa’s sleeve and showed her the canine and the missing space. She listened to his story of how it happened and asked if it had hurt. March shook his head bravely no, and that was the end of that.

So now he lay awake in bed, doing his best not to toss and turn on the cramped queen sized mattress. MaaMaa lay snoring to his left, and to her left was YeYe, who was a horrifically light sleeper. His eyes fell upon the wall and followed a drip of paint up, up, up to the clock that ticked gently. It was waaaayyy past his bedtime. He should be sleeping, not… whatever this was. March squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to will sleep upon his body. No such luck. He opened them again and was greeted by the sight of the tooth-shaped capsule, sitting within arms reach. (His tooth was on top of the bedside dresser.)

The tooth fairy wasn’t real. March knew that already. But… but, maybe just for fun, he could pretend…? Nobody would know, right?

In one careful, silent motion, he popped the cap open and shook the canine out into his hand. Then, he tucked it inside of his pillowcase and settled back down with a deep sigh. Just for fun. Just to pretend.

The next morning, March would shake out his pillow and watch in utter confusion as a silver coin plopped out. It wasn’t a 5p coin or a 10p coin. In fact, it wasn’t any type of coin that he recognized at all. He turned it over and over; both faces were blank and devoid of any features, smooth all the way around. He dug deeper into the pillowcase, eventually turning it inside out and shaking that too. No luck. He couldn’t find his tooth at all, only this strange coin that had taken the place that it should’ve been. Where had it come from? Where had his tooth gone?

With no clue what to do about it, March simply dropped the mysterious coin into his piggy bank. It clinked to the bottom, without fanfare.

GLOSSARY

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LaaiLaai 奶奶 - Husband’s mother.
LouYe 老爺 - Husband’s father.
MaaMaa 嫲嫲 - Paternal grandmother.
YeYe 爺爺 - Paternal grandfather.
Baba 爸爸 - Father.
Mama 媽媽 - Mother.
鄺秀英 - Kwong Xiuying, April’s maiden name.

YEAR ONE - ROLEPLAYING GOALS

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[list][*] Tentatively begin to loosen up and be a kid
[*] Discover a sense of freedom away from home
[*] Learn to lose/fail
[*] Make a friend :]
[*] Make an enemy >:]
[*] Get into a fight (learn to duel?)
[*] Get some physical activity going jfc
[*] Explore castle
[*] Investigate his mother's disappearance and her letter[/list]